


Paparazzi

by orphan_account



Series: Patria Records [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bands, Barricade Boys - Freeform, F/M, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Music, Patria Records!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He knows he should be grateful for the fame. He is, really, but sometimes he just doesn’t want to be mobbed every ten minutes for some fictitious request[...]"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paparazzi

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wild Eyed Boy (From Freecloud)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/717440) by [Ark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark). 



It was the morning before the twenty-seventh show of their label’s yearly concert tour, _"Night with the Patriots"_ in New York.

They are in a hotel and bored out of their wits and according to Courfeyrac the hotel coffee is watery and Combeferre is currently out-of-character and conversing (or flirting?) with a hotel maid whose name starts with an E.

(For some reason, this girl doesn’t mention their music. Is this a ploy to get him to like her and they start dating and when they are she’ll turn psycho?)

(Enjolras was always wary of girls.)

　

He decides to leave the hotel to get some decent coffee, maybe something from Starbucks or Coffee Bean or Dunkin Donuts or J.Co (do they have J.Co in New York?).

He dons a forest green hoodie and a baseball cap and some jeans and grabs his wallet and his Samsung Galaxy I and leaves the room – and their hotel – without a word. Neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre question his leave.

 

His leave has been going good so far. He manages to stay in the elevator silently without anyone trying to attack him for an autograph or an impromptu interview or anything annoying.

He knows he should be grateful for the fame. He is, really, but sometimes he just doesn’t want to be mobbed every ten minutes for some fictitious request to say ‘hi’ for Youtube or Hulu or Dailymotion or a question of "when are you creating a Twitter?" He’s not in the mood to hear those today.

　

He makes his way out of the elevator, his worn red Converse squeaking against the marble floors. He briskly walks to the exits, and he’s free.

He walks and walks for minutes, meshing himself into the crowd of New Yorkers – businessmen, yoga girls, flustered mothers, joggers, aspiring musicians talking about Romanza – rubbing against all sorts of people that he did not know but might possibly know him if his cap fell off his head.

 

Before he knew it, he was in Starbucks, and he’s in line, and he’s ordered a Tazo Green Tea Crème Frappuccino and he’s given the counter lady (whose nametag says Musichetta – sounds familiar…) his payment and a fake name ("Jeff." A different one each time they ask for it.) and he’s sat by a window just waiting for his ‘name’ to be called.

 

To bide his time, Enjolras begins to look around and observe people, when Musichetta shouts out, "Java Chip Frappuccino Blended Coffee for Claude!"

It wasn’t his ‘name’, but he stole a glance from the counter and he saw a familiar bunch of curls and a dark blue hoodie he knew all too well. Behind ‘Claude’ followed another boy wearing a brown newsboy cap and a denim jacket.

"And a Caramel Macchiato for Justin!" Musichetta adds as she softly slams the two drinks onto a tray. Newsboy Cap dude raises his hand and ‘Claude’ snorts before he takes the tray and walks away. "Thank you, Chetta," Newsboy Cap whispered. "I’ll be sure to tell Joly and Bossuet you miss them." Musichetta smiles and gives Newsboy Cap a playful punch, "remember to say it the way I did."

"I – MISS – YOU – TWO – VERY – MUCH!" Bahorel demonstrates, his arms wide open like he was being crucified.

Musichetta chuckles. "Thanks, Bahorel." And she returns to her post.

How could he forget? Newsboy Cap is Bahorel from his labelmate band ABC!

"Tazo Green Tea Crème Frappuccino for Jeff," Musichetta shouts, and Enjolras leaps from his feet and takes his drink.

"You coming later?" Enjolras speaks casually, taking a straw and the chocolate sprinkles. "What?" Musichetta turns around whispers in confusion, her eyes squinted in suspicion.

"Chetta, it’s Marcelin," he replies. Musichetta beams, but a light blush goes up her cheeks – a sign of embarrassment. She had not recognized a friend. "Oh my god, I did not recognize you! Nice cover." She says, sincere. "Why, thank you, Miss. But I’m afraid I must go. I might block up the line. I’ll see you tonight." He grabs his drink and bows off. Musichetta chuckles and Enjolras could hear someone say, "that’s a record. Three guys trying to woo you. I wonder what your boyfriend would say."

‘Oh, stranger, if you only knew,’ Enjolras mused.

 

Instead of returning to his previous seat, he goes up to Bahorel and ‘Claude’. "Mind if I join you Patriots?" Enjolras asks, smirk on his face. The two turn to look at him. Both their eyes light up. "Marcelin!" ‘Claude’ exclaims in a whisper, and Enjolras finally recognizes him. It’s Grantaire, Bahorel’s bandmate.

"So how are we this fine morning?" Enjolras asks, collapsing upon the stool beside Grantaire’s. "Pretty great. Claude over here though, is bloody paranoid. He’s scared to come out should he get mobbed again." Grantaire stares heatedly at Bahorel as Enjolras laughs, "your fault for not telling the media you had a sister."

"Margaox was very scared, just so you know. She told me there was a male paparazzi sleeping outside the balcony our father, even though he hated my career choice, took the man’s camera and smashed it in his sleep." Grantaire argued.

The other two boys laughed. Grantaire huffed.

The three fell into a comfortable, friendly silence after that, drinking and feeling content.

 

Someone just had to bloody ruin it for them.

"Oh my gosh, it’s Enjolras and Grantaire!"

Bahorel slammed his coffee in shock.

The two heads shot up and they saw a girl squealing her guts out. Soon, Starbucks was filled with people, and it wasn’t a good kind of fill.

The three were getting mobbed.

 

Musichetta was struck with a vicious feeling. She grabbed the person nearest to her and positioned him on the counter as she took off her apron and threw it down to the floor. She braved the crowd and managed to get to the three.

She grabs Enjolras and Bahorel in both hands, her dark hair coming undone from the ponytail. She looks at Enjolras and says, "hold on!" and Enjolras grabs the hand of a thunderstruck Grantaire.

Musichetta was a woman of immense strength, both Enjolras and Bahorel gathered. She managed to singly remove the three stars out of the mob and dragged them into the back room, screaming obscenities and demanding everyone to "drop their shit" and "get rid of those cunts". The staff, struck with fear, left the room quickly to disperse the mob.

‘It's lucky that no one knows who Chetta is to us, or to the entire label,’ Enjolras thought. ‘Calling the fans ‘cunts’ would reflect badly on a lot of people.’

But maybe after today she would lose her ‘normal person’ identity, now that she’s saved their butts from being mobbed. So what’s the difference?

By the time he’s silenced his brain they’re already out the door, and Musichetta apologises profusely, and Bahorel’s consoling her, and she’s close to crying and Grantaire is just dazed.

"I’m sorry you had to go through that," Musichetta panted. Enjolras pats her on the shoulder and Bahorel claps a hand on her back and they both gave her a smile. Grantaire smiles at her as well, and she returns it ruefully. "Don’t worry about it, Chetta. We’re alive." Bahorel states. "But still! You guys are bloody stars and my boyfriends are your best friends and they’d be disappointed because I couldn’t prevent it--"

"None of us foresaw what just happened. It’s not your fault. You did well." Grantaire said with short sentences. "But once it did," Enjolras added, "you dealt with it pretty well like you were part of security and you knew the escape plan by heart." Musichetta seemed to feel lighter and heaved a sigh of relief.

"You really think so?" she asked, hopeful.

"We know so. Joly and Bossuet will be very proud of you." Grantaire offered.

"Thanks guys," she sighed again.

　

The back door creaked open and the four turned to see. There was a woman standing by it, wearing an office-type of dress.

"Musichetta, the fans have been dispersed. Get back to work." He demands. "Yes, Madam Magnon." She answers and follows her inside.

"Thanks, Chetta," Enjolras calls after her. Madam Magnon sneers at them before slamming the door shut.

 

They walked the streets silently, dodging from and meshing with the crowd, walking away from the café and to a unanimously-chosen direction; the direction that they believed would lead to their hotel.

They felt so flustered by the mob they forgot that their covers have been left on their table at Starbucks. But they realized too late when the three of them began to be surrounded by people, notebooks, cameras and flashes.

　

　

The people shouted questions, asked for statements, looked for answers, described their plight. Enjolras almost swore. But he knew he couldn’t. It would be all over tabloids: journalists exaggerating and twisting the story to fill pages upon pages of this small story of cause-and-effect just to make sell of their uneducational, trashy magazine.

But one question made the entire commotion pause and go and the same time.

"Grantaire! How are you holding up going cold turkey?"

This stopped the presses from their movement, and an expecting atmosphere arose. There was silence.

"Well?" The mysterious reporter demanded, "How does it feel to be pressured by the label to stop drinking? How does it feel to be sober? Would you rather feel numb with your alcohol and vomit onstage? Or would you rather feel conscious but hurting?"

Grantaire looked down, dryly scraping the grime off his shoes.

"I think that’s enough." Enjolras declared with a voice of authority, putting his arm around Grantaire. But the reporter did not stop.

"What made you drink, Grantaire? Is it a thing? A place? An event? A person? Or multiple people? Is your father one of the contributing factors to your alcoholism? What about your mother? Your sister? Or is it a lost love? Heartbreak? Is it stress? What are you stressed about? Is it the band? The label? Is it--"

 

But the reporter didn’t finish his bombardment because Grantaire felt faint.

　

　

Enjolras was quick to catch him in his arms and carry him like a bride. Grantaire struggled for breath. He sounded like he was choking on something as simple as air.

Bahorel’s jaw locked. Enjolras stared at him, lightly rocking the dead weight on him to try and ease his breathing.

Bahorel felt Enjolras’ eyes on him. He was trying to tell Bahorel, ‘no,’ and Bahorel began to ease when the reporter took out his tape recorder and said into it, "in the face of adversity, Grantaire shows weakness. He faints in front of hordes of reporters before he can answer to any of the questions."

Bahorel gets mad.

He lets out a loud shout that sounded like a war cry and pushes himself into the throng, grabbing the reporter by his coat. He pulls the tape recorder from his hand and throws it to the ground violently that it cracks.

He grabs the collar before he turns away, makes good measure of the bastard's face before punching him in the jaw.

The blow was strong and Bahorel's knuckles were red. It sent the man back into the crowd and onto the ground. He clutches his jaw, pained, and shoots a dirty, angry glare at Bahorel. A split second later and both of them are running to wherever they could get, Grantaire in Enjolras's arms.

　

　

Winging their sense of direction made them get to the hotel in fifteen minutes. Montpanarsse was in the lobby, typing away on his iPhone when he sees the two men and 'corpse'. He leaps from his seat.

"What the hell?"

"Long story. Help us out." Bahorel dismisses. Montpanarsse cocks his brow but leads them to the elevator, pressing the sixth floor button and leads them to his room.

　

　

At five pm, two hours before the show, Bahorel was nursing his knuckles with a can of Coke from the mini-bar, and Enjolras and Montpanarsse are distracted by some sport on TV when Grantaire stirs awake.

The three men crowd around him when they hear him whimper. Grantaire rolls over and sees the worried eyes of his labelmates, and he flashes them a smile.

"You okay?"

Grantaire simply flashes him the 'OK' sign.

This small gesture from Grantaire speaks volumes to Enjolras, he thinks. So simple, yet it has said so much without having to open his mouth. He was so deep in thought he did not realise he was already smiling.

'This will pass,' he thinks.

'He'll be okay.'


End file.
